


Pulmonary

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-26
Updated: 2011-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's gotten into bar fights for worse reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulmonary

**Author's Note:**

> Set during season 1. Written for my 10_fics [table](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/371087.html), prompt: "breathe." Thank you to sophiap for the lovely beta.

It was day three into a prank war, started because they were both a little bit punch drunk after torching a grove of killer trees in Michigan. Sam chose to wait in the Impala while Dean picked up buffalo wings to go from a dive bar.

Sam rolled the phrase over in his head again: _killer trees._ The lack of weird he’d had in his life at Stanford was remarkable, weird being a relative term, given his first year roommate’s fixation with collecting oddities of all kinds, from turn-of-the-century circus posters to crackerjack prizes to old printing press blocks of the letter "H." (Sam thought of Jess, turning one of those metal letters over in her fingers, chest going tight).

Why "H," Sam had never been able to find out, but everyone was obsessed with something, and a fondness for the letter "H" seemed ordinary to Sam compared to rock salt and gunpowder and silver blades, endless hours spent in decrepit empty houses or shivering in a graveyard.

Still. _Killer trees_ \-- that was weird even for him and Dean. Afterwards they’d had two six-packs of beer between them and Sam woke up to find all his socks superglued together.

Sam glanced through the windshield at the bar, a long, low wood building that sagged a little to the north, white paint gone dirty, and saw no sign of Dean yet. He reached into his knapsack and got out the bag of plastic cockroaches he'd bought yesterday. Dean hated anything violating his car, and vermin would be high on the list of violations, possibly worse than spirit possession or gremlins or that time an alerion laid its eggs in the footwell of the backseat.

He put one roach on the bench, one on the ashtray of the driver's side door, and one on the dashboard, then settled back into his seat to keep waiting for his brother.

The trees were still mostly bare from winter, starting to grow softer with spring. Sam rolled the window down, breathing in the cold air, sunlight spreading pale over his arm. He inhaled exhaust and metal and the scent of dampness from the woods nearby. Sam gave the trees an uneasy stare, remembering the one that had wrapped a limb around his leg, yanking him to the ground before Dean could go after it with an axe.

Sometimes Sam wished he lived in a world where a tree was only a tree.

Dean was taking a little too long for just getting buffalo wings for take-out, and probably had started flirting with a waitress. If Sam didn't go get him, he'd be stuck waiting for God knows how long while Dean did God knows what in a back room. Besides, Sam was getting hungry.

He got out of the car, stretching the tightness of their long drive out of his muscles, then headed into the bar. One of the windows had a crack in it, right below a sign announcing the happy hour prices. Inside, the smell of french fries mingled with stale beer, long absorbed into the tables and worn wood floors that held the marks of decades.

"Stop it, Billy, right now. Stop it." The bartender, pale-skinned and freckled, her red hair pulled up into a pony tail, carried a brittle note of fear under the command in her voice.

 _Shit._ Sam froze.

A guy had Dean's arms pinned behind him, holding Dean to his knees while another, heavier guy stood with his fists clenched. Dean grinned up at him around the blood on his mouth. Sam knew that grin. It meant Billy and his friend could end up in traction if they weren't careful.

Dean jerked, almost getting free but the asshole holding him in place had the arms of a football player. Billy leaned down and punched Dean in the stomach, smooth, and fast. The impact of his fist on Dean's body, and the grunt as the air left Dean's lungs, were audible even over the jukebox, not that Sam could tell what song it was playing over the rushing in his ears.

"Hey!" Sam shouted.

They all turned to look at Sam, and Dean took the opportunity to jab his elbow into the gut of the guy holding him, but he was winded, struggling for breath, and the guy shoved him down too easily.

Sam hurled himself at Billy before he could swing the next punch. They thudded to the floor hard enough the boards groaned. Billy smelled of cigarette smoke and barbecue sauce and too much aftershave, and he moved with swift, strong grace, making it difficult for Sam to hold his grip on him.

The sound of rubber soles scuffling against wood, curses and thumps reached Sam from nearby as he struggled to move out of Billy's reach. The heel of Billy's hand slammed into Sam's chin. It would've gotten his nose but Sam had been a moving target. Crap, it hurt, his teeth cracking together from the impact.

"Son of a bitch," the bartender said, as the clatter of glasses falling to the floor and the sound of a table knocked over filled the bar. There was a heartbeat of silence and then the jukebox changed to something slow and quiet.

The heavy guy sprawled on the floor. Dean was up and free, turning towards Sam as Sam's punch caught Billy in the jaw. Before Sam could land a second punch, Billy kicked Sam hard in the ribs, knocking him back to the floor. His head hit hard enough that he went dazed for a few seconds.

Dean grabbed Billy by the back of his shirt, hauled him over to the bar and slammed his face down against it once. He shoved Billy to the floor next to his friend. Billy glared but neither he nor his friend tried to get up.

The bartender had come out from behind the bar and glared down at them. "Billy, why are you and Stan always _such_ dicks? Out of my bar, both of you. Now." She kicked Billy's shoulder, urging him to move.

He slowly got to his feet, glaring at the bartender and at Dean but Dean feinted towards him and he walked fast towards the door, his friend in his wake.

The track on the jukebox ended, leaving quiet.

Dean's hands were on Sam's shoulders, pulling him to his feet. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said, as Dean's fingers poked the back of his head, his arms, his side. Sam flinched although he tried not to.

"Easy," Dean said.

"You want some ice?" The bartender asked.

"Nah," Dean said, as Sam, looking at the blood on Dean's face and the way he held his hand against his ribs, said, "Yes, thank you, ma'am."

"So polite," she said drily, with a small, tight smile. "The name's Judy."

"I'm Sam, this is my brother Dean." Sam took the towels of ice Judy offered them. "You all right, here?"

"Yeah. I got a gun under the register if he comes back and I got the sheriff on speed-dial. Plus there's Larry who's usually in the back. Sorry about your buffalo wings, hon. Larry's day off," Judy said, turning to Sam, "so the kitchen's closed."

Sam's stomach chose that moment to growl loudly.

Sam and Dean kept standing there, until Judy made shooing motions at them. "Go. Leave me in peace to clean up."

They went slowly, Sam trying not to limp, noticing Dean trying not to limp, and it was almost funny. It was the same walk Dean had used after they’d fought the killer trees. Sam bit his lip, laugh rising in him because that was easier than giving in to the downward pull of how messed up this all was.

"What in the hell was that?" Sam said once they were outside. Billy and his friend were nowhere in sight. The tightness in Sam's jaw eased.

"First he stiffed her on his tab and then he tried to grab her ass, and then he did it again after she told him not to."

"There are worse reasons to get into a barfight," Sam said. "I'm pretty sure you've gotten into a few for worse reasons."

"Probably," Dean said, a little too irreverently.

Sam handed Dean a towel full of ice as they leaned against the Impala. The terrycloth was rough and thin. Sam held the ice against his bruised rib while Dean put his to his swollen lip.

Watching his brother's breaths, watching for the winces, Sam felt his heart rate finally start to slow, aftermath of adrenaline leaving him shaken. A breeze kicked up, sending goosebumps along his arms underneath the flannel, the ice too cold against his side. Each breath ached. He hoped it was only a bruise, not a cracked rib.

"Just breathe slow," Dean said.

"Yeah." Cars rushed by on the highway. "You too." Sam's elbow brushed against Dean's. His brother was an area of warmth in the cold spring air.

Dean pushed off from the car gingerly, headed for the driver’s side door. He was carefully easing himself inside the car before Sam remembered, and thought maybe he should warn Dean about the plastic cockroaches.

Then again, maybe not.

~end


End file.
